Predators in Afghanistan
by Srelex
Summary: As the struggle for Helmand Province continues, Coalition and Taliban forces have to face a new, shadowy opponent that cares not for politics or religion, but for trophies...
1. Chapter 1

Hovering over a small green planet in a remote corner of the galaxy, a shadowy hulk materialized out of nowhere, undetected and unnoticed by the primitive satellites and observation devices used by the primitives below. Advanced sensors scanned the topography of the world below it, seeking out the ideal region that the figures aboard seeked.

Finally, the computer systems of the vessel managed to isolate one area. Hot, arid-just right. Apparently torn apart by conflict between the inhabitants-just perfect. That presented many opportunities for prey...and trophies.

Moving into position over this selected region, the dark vessel, still undetected, made sure to disable a nearby satellite of the inhabitants, before finally disgorging several pods that hit the atmosphere and came streaking down towards the desolate wartorn wastes below.

* * *

_Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 2010_

"Boom. Headshot."

Through night vision goggles, US Marine sniper Harry O'Neil watched as the head of a Taliban insurgent spurted blood as a 7.62 NATO round launched from his M39 Enhanced Marksman Rifle impacted into his skull. Evening was descending, and as part of their ongoing offensive against the Taliban in Helmand province, NATO forces were pushing in. Gunfire rang out in the far distance as O'Neil got up and headed towards the rendezvous point where he was due to meet with fellow Marines and NATO special forces troops. With them, they would pinpoint Taliban positions in this area to be taken out by the main forces.

"_This is Gangster, am meeting up with friendlies at Grid Charlie now._" he breathed into his radio headset.

"_Copy that. Continue to maintain cover._"

Moving through the sandy, sparsely vegetated hills to the side of a small valley, with the shadows of the Afghanistan evening obscuring everything, he finally slid down a slope to find friendly soldiers waiting for him near a pile of boulders-fellow Marines, a few Rangers, Canadian and British special forces, and a couple of friendly Afghan troops, no doubt there for their knowledge of these lands.

"You're two minutes late, Marine." growled the Marine sergeant-a tall black man from the Bronx; sergeant Charles. O'Neil had already met him back at Kandahar.

"Sergeant Harris, Canadian special operations." gestured Charles to one of the Canadians, who nodded. "Captain Sean, SAS."

"Could always use another Yank on board." he muttered.

"Captain Hassan, Afghan forces." he finally pointed towards the most prominent Afghan soldier. "Learn those names and faces, because for the next 24 hours, we're all together. Now that we've got pretty introductions out of the way, how about..."

"Hold on..." Harris paused and muttered something into his headset. "Just got a message from command. We just lost GPS coverage over half the damn country."

"What do you mean?" said Charles. "Probably just a goddamn glitch or something. It happens. Now, listen up. Our objectives are as follows..."

"Uh, my radio just went out." Harris then added, before turning to Sean. "Can I borrow yours?"

"Sure." The SAS soldier handed over his own communications set, which Harris tried to talk into. Same result.

"Someone's jamming us."

"Impossible. Those fucking towelheads can't even read." scoffed Charles.

"Either way, that's the case. We're cut off."

"Don't matter. You know our objectives; we'll carry them out." said Charles. As he turned around, the sky was lit up by a blue flash for a fraction of a second, with the ground juddering under their feet, upsetting loose stones and causing sand to run down the side of the hills.

"The hell was that?"

"Artillery? Fuck if I know. Move out, ladies-we got a job to do."

* * *

"Allah be praised, what was that?"

Clutching his AK-47, Taliban militant Hamidi struggled to comprehend what he had just seen. Cowering in this small dugout in a sandy valley, here in Helmand, he had just seen what looked like the wrath of Allah descending from heaven-blue lights shooting out of the evening clouds, impacting nearby. One of them had smashed through an infidel flying machine in its descent-what more evidence was needed that the Almighty was finally bringing his wrath down on the unrighteous?

"Hamidi!" he turned around to see a fellow warrior of jihad armed with an RPG crawl towards him, looking distressed. "The infidels have paused in their attack...it is almost as if they cannot communicate with each other..."

"It is true!" grinned Hamidi. "Allah is on our side after all!"

"I wouldn't be so sure." said the other insurgent gravely. "I just tried to test out that radio nearby...it wouldn't work."

"It is broken, no doubt. How old is it anyway?" said Hamidi. "Fetch the other men. We must use this opportunity well!"

As the two insurgents walked off, Hamidi paused, and looked up to the hills as the last streaks of sunlight vanished across the horizon. He had the strange feeling that something was watching him.

* * *

"AK-47s! _For everyone_!"

In a small village not far from the valleys and hills where the NATO forces had paused, Taliban insurgents streamed out of the shacks and dwellings of Afghan peasants they had been using to hide in, as a technical laden with boxes of ammunition and weapon parked itself in the center of the village. Jihadists, fighting to expel the infidel invader from their lands, reached out for the AK-47s, RPG-7s, and other cheap but reliable weapons the Taliban had scavenged for itself being distributed from the technicals-the word had spread quickly of the communication predicament facing the infidels, and of the signs Allah had sent down from the sky moments ago-surely now was the time to strike! That was one thing all the men could agree on, from those fighting for the Koran to those fighting for money to support their families.

Some of the local peasants, who had seen the Signs sent down with their own eyes-avenging angels sent to smite the evil Americans and their lapdogs, no doubt!-were volunteering to serve the cause. A few non-Pashtun members of the village, such as Tajiks and Hazara, found their homes being looted for food and any evidence of collaboration with the infidels-any grievances of theirs were secondary to bringing holy war to the Great Satan defiling the lands of Afghanistan, and the heretics who had taken arms against the warriors of Jihad alongside them.

"Come on, men!" An insurgent leader shouted from one of the technicals-with all the weapons and ammo aboard now distributed around the invigorated crowd of militants milling around it, there was now space for them to pile aboard. "Allah has sent down signs of his blessing! There can be no doubt now that victory is inevitable! Fifty Afghanis for the first man to kill an infidel!"

Cheering, Taliban soldiers crammed themselves into the technicals, which drove off out of the shadowy confines of the village, which had little more than candles and simple oil lamps to light itself up in the darkness of the night that had now descended. Rolling across the rocky, rough landscape, blowing up dust and sand, the technicals did not turn on their lights, for that would merely alert the infidels to their presence. They would get as close as they could, and then descend upon them like lightning, finally showing the fat, stupid Americans whose land this belonged to. They were Afghans, and had known nothing but hardship and violence, which had strengthened them for such a conflict as this—victory was not in doubt.

Driving along the bottom of a large hill, the soldiers in the second technical hold on as it bounced along every rock or indentation it drove over-the suspension was not of the best quality. The men inside then cried out as the side struck a large boulder that loomed suddenly out of the darkness, too close to react. Grunting, the driver began to slowly maneuver the vehicle, with its side now dented, as the men in the back chastised him for his driving.

"What's that?" one of them uttered as pebbles rolled down the slope to their side.

"Wild animals. Or the vibrations caused by this stupid bastard's driving." muttered his brother to the side.

"I didn't know there were many wild animals around here and...hey..."

The first insurgent paused as three red dots appeared imposed on his chest in a tight triangular pattern.

"What in the name of Allah is..."

The men fell silent as something struck his chest, knocking him out of the technical. His clothes had been burned through and the wound was smoking, leaving a stunned impression on his face. Shouting in panic, the men got out, taking cover behind the vehicle, readying their Kalashnikovs and RPGs. Clearly, the infidels were bolder than they thought-let them come out and fight like men. Their fancy weapons and technologies would not intimidate brave Pashtun men like them.

"American dogs!" one of them shouted, firing wildly into the darkness up ahead. "Come out, and fight like you have balls!"

"Quiet! Do not shoot unless you have a target!" snapped the insurgent leader.

The men waited in silence, weapons ready-only their breathing and the faint distant chattering of battle was now audible. They could faintly make out a very faint scuffling noise coming from somewhere nearby-but what was it? It was not like the infidels to be so sneaky. Usually they came down with their flying machines and bombs, recklessly causing destruction while brave Jihadists like them had long moved on. Perhaps this was a sign that they were finally learning.

Looking around, one of the insurgents paused as his eyes managed to make out something in the darkness, with moonlight helping him-some sort of outline, but maybe it was just his eyes playing tricks on him. What he saw next shook him more-there appeared to be...footprints appearing out of nowhere? In the sand? What sort of witchcraft was this?

"My friends..." he breathed.

"Silence! Do not make noise! Do not alert the Yankees to our position!"

"But..."

He turned around, and his heart leapt. Standing tall over him was...some sort of demon, with a face of metal and hands with claws, as huge blades protruded from its wrists. Two more similar monsters just...materialized out of the darkness beside it, one of them holding a staff of some kind, the other some sort of whip. He was so horrified that he could not react, except with wide stares. He realized now: those signs in the sky were not Allah's signals of retribution. They were signals of punishment.

The demons closed in, tearing into the insurgents before they could react. Kalashnikov fire rang out as blades, sharper than any weapon procured by man, sliced through flesh and cut straight through even the toughest warriors. Within moments, the Taliban soldiers were eviscerated bodies, lying bleeding in the cold night sand, as the faceless demons, sent down by Allah to punish all, looked down on them.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Stay frosty, gentlemen. Objective's less than a klick ahead."_

Sergeant Andrew Harris, Canadian special forces, checked his 5.56mm C8 assault rifle as he and the rest of the combined squad made their slowly through the rough terrain, with dried desert plants crunching under their feet. Slung over his shoulder was a C14 Timberwolf sniper rifle-for distant encounters, naturally. He checked to make sure the other guys in his squad were there-Krajewski and Rolfe, still there. The Americans, Brits, and Afghan soldiers were also still with him-despite their proximity, Charles insisted that communication be restricted except in emergencies.

In many ways, Harris wondered what he was doing here. Growing up through school and college in Toronto, he had never thought about joining the army-he was more content to play Dungeons and Dragons and engage in long debates about Star Wars and Star Trek. But his father naturally idolized his own father, who had fought in both world wars-a 'real Canadian hero', as the family liked to call him. As a result, Harris had enlisted a few years ago, if only to please his own man, and after achieving results in training that surprised even his own low expectations, he had been chosen for special forces and by extension this mission.

"Damn, it's cold." Krajewksi muttered under his breath nearby. He had known both him and Rolfe for some time now, from boot camp and now to here-they had largely bonded thanks to their similar interests; Krajewski was apparently a Firefly fan and Rolfe enjoyed Babylon 5. There's always a nerd clique, Harris had thought.

"Halt up." Charles' stopped. "We're there."

They stood at the top of a hill overlooking a small village, lit up by a few pinpricks of light. Harris was aware of the mission; they would determine if the Taliban were making use of civilian hostages, as intelligence and suggested, and the general threat level in this area. Intel had also suggested the presence of hidden Stinger and AA sites around the village, which would make hell for aerial and UAV forces. If possible, they were to eliminate those also.

"Boston 1, take point and locate any hostiles." snapped Charles. Murmuring in acknowledgement, Sean ran up and began scanning the area below through some night vision binoculars, before shaking his head.

"No tangos in sight."

"Let's get in thick then, gentlemen. Beaver, you and your boys go in first. We'll back you up."

"You heard the Yankee." nodded Harris to Krajewksi and Rolfe, as they moved quickly and silently down the slope. The shadows around them increased as the moonlight was blocked out by thick clouds. Rapidly moving across the sand and the rocks, they came up to the village boundary. Pulling down night vision goggles, Harris moved around a corner; nobody in sight. Slowly moving forward, gesturing for the two to keep behind him, he peered inside one of the simply built shacks; nobody inside except some sleeping Afghan peasants. Proceeding forward, he watched as the rest began to move down the slope as well. Communications were down, but a lack of gunfire was usually a sign that things were clear.

"That should be it." muttered Rolfe as they approached a barricaded building in the middle of the village, with slogans written on the walls. Something was not quite right; Harris had at least expected some sign that this village was insurgent-held, as it was supposed to be. Carefully approaching the building, he waited as the others filed in, keeping quiet and to the shadows. He looked towards Charles and gestured at the door; Charles responded with a nod.

"Breach and clear." he muttered as they walked up to the entrance. Taking point, Rolfe slowly opened the door while Harris and Krajewski covered him; then bursting inside, they suddenly paused at what their night vision goggles were bringing up in the unlit interior.

Hanging from the ceiling were what appeared to be at least a dozen Taliban militants, skinned right down to the muscle. Judging by the smell and their appearance, whoever had done this had done this recently. The Yankee who had just joined them summed up their feelings:

"Well, shit."

"I want to know what the fuck happened here." growled Charles. "What the fuck is this? Some voodoo bullshit?"

"Eh?"

The men span around as a young boy emerged from the shadows, looking utterly traumatized, muttering something in a local dialect. Charles turned to Hassan.

"Talk to him. I need to know what happened here."

"Looking at him, that will be difficult." muttered Hassan, approaching the boy and holding him. They exchanged some words in dialect, while Charles looked on impatiently.

"He says something about demons." said Hassan finally. "At least, I think. He is very...scared."

"Well, that's a lot of fucking help." said Charles. "Very well then. We'll press on to secondary objectives: locate and eliminate towelhead weapons positions. Should be simple enough. I'll take point, get behind me and move out."

Moving out of the Taliban headquarters building, the squad moved again through the streets, finding themselves back at the village boundary in a matter of moments. Scanning the hilly landscape before them through night-vision binoculars, Hassan turned to Charles.

"Sir, I would recommend that some of us volunteer to scout this immediate area. If the Taliban have lookouts, they will spot us easily if we go as one."

"What about the lack of comms?" asked Sean.

"We do not have to go far. If any of us were to encounter trouble, we can use flares."

"Concur." muttered Charles. "New kid, head out a klick to the north and come straight back. Boston, north-east. Beaver, north-west."

"Rolfe, you heard the man." said Harris to his squadmate. "Go find those Koran-thumping assholes."

* * *

"With pleasure." Moving quickly through the rocks and the sand, George Rolfe felt like he was a kid again, camping with his father in the great forests of the Northwest Territories. Except that there was significantly more vegetation there, and it wasn't infested with AK-47 waving loonies, but he felt the same thrill from this sense of isolation and wild. Just because he was Canadian didn't mean that he was turned off by hot places.

He tried not to think about what he had just seen in the village-he had absolutely no idea what could have done that. It couldn't have been the villagers; the Taliban insurgents would have had at least some local support to set up shop in that dump, and besides, they did have the weapons to defend themselves and keep the local yokels in line. So what was it? Some ritualistic self-sacrifice? No, he didn't think that was prescribed in the Koran anywhere. It just didn't make any sense.

Rolfe paused. He suddenly had the very strong feeling that he wasn't alone. Looking around him, he swore he could have seen those nearby rocks move. Probably just my imagination playing tricks, he tried to reassure himself. Carrying on, he could make out the flashes of anti-air and artillery fire in the far distance; he was thankful that he wasn't on the receiving end of _that._

Something stumbled nearby. He paused and froze, raising his SIG Sauer P220. He definitely wasn't alone, but something told him this wasn't just some Taliban towelhead.

His head swiveled to a nearby boulder; there appeared to be something standing atop it...but he could only see what appeared to be an outline. Was that Molson he had had back in the base having more effect than he had realized?

He cried out as a full figure materialized, leaping down from the boulder and knocking him back. He managed to let off several shots from his SIG Sauer before the thing thrust several blades straight into his chest, before grabbing his head and tearing it right off, along with a section of spinal column, leaving his body to collapse limply into the sand.


	3. Chapter 3

"Gunfire, toward's Beaver's position! Move it! Boston, cover our flanks!"

"Got it! Alright, you arseholes, shift!"

Captain Jason Sean of the SAS readied his L85A2 assault rifle and sprinted up the rocky slopes in the direction of the last known position of Beaver 2-the Canuck that had been sent up. No flare had been let off, and no other gunfire had been heard-this didn't sound good. As his night vision goggles lit up the terrain before him, he considered something strange-they had only heard the sound of Beaver's pistol, and certainly no evidence of automatic gunfire as would be expected of a Taliban ambush. A wild animal? No, it didn't sound right.

He signaled for his squadmates, Travis and Small, to cover him as he moved towards a large boulder, scanning for the Canadian soldier-no more sounds of gunfire, which worried him. The Americans, predictably, were shouting to each other as if to attract the attention of everything for miles-damn Yankees acted like rejects from a Hollywood movie. Sean had served in the First Gulf War and had served a few tours of duty in Iraq; he knew what he was bloody well doing, unlike these stupid arseholes. Ducking behind the boulder, he signaled for Travis to check the area near it; he confirmed that there appeared to be nothing, prompting him to move out of cover and carry on.

"Shit!" he spat as he stumbled on something soft. It was...an arm. Looking at the trail of fresh, glistening blood, he finally looked upon what was left of the Canadian, with his head and what looked like a chunk of his spine torn right off. His gun lay a few feet away, with several spent casings lying on the ground, confirming that he had at least fought back.

But looking at this...well, shit. He had seen the mutilated remains of people after suicide bombings and airstrikes in Iraq, he had even seen gruesome sights while growing up in London's East End-that alone had toughened him up to serve as one of England's finest-but nothing compared to the sheer brutality of this. How exactly had those damn bastards done this? They'd have needed surgery equipment? And how had they managed to take down a special operations soldier quick enough for him not to let off his flare or take no casualties? None of this made any sense, and after seeing what he had seen back in the village, this mission was clearly turning out to be no ordinary one.

"Oh, god, no..." Harris approached the body, sounding as if he was about to burst into tears. He tried to put on his best stoic face, but even in this dark Sean could see the tears welling. He understood the feeling. Back enough to see a soldier you'd fought with die by a bullet, even worse to find him torn apart like this like something out of a slasher movie.

"Gentlemen," Charles announced, "I guess it's fucking obvious by now that there's more to this shit than meets the eye. Either the towelheads have been growing serious balls, or..."

"You know," announced Hassan, "this reminds me of an old tribal legend I once heard...of demons from the heavens that would hunt the bravest warriors they could find..."

"We don't have time for any flying carpet shit right now!" snarled Charles. "We have lost a man, and that for me is too much, even if he isn't from my country! We are going to find whatever fuckers did this and make them eat their own balls!"

"Bloody Yank." Small whispered to Sean. "We're cut off from everyone else, and he's expecting us to go Rambo on the entire fucking Taliban alongside him."

"Frankly, I can understand the sentiment." said Sean, as one of the Marines inspected the body. "I just don't get it...the Talis would be more likely to take him prisoner, use him for bargaining..."

"You can't expect them to be predictable, sir." said Small. "They're willing to blow themselves up for blowjobs in the afterlife, after all."

"Hmm." murmured Sean, before turning to Charles. "So, what's our move?"

"There is a larger town to the north." announced Charles. "Currently being contested, I believe. We'll head up there for now."

"What about his body?" asked Harris, gesturing at the corpse.

"Leave it. We can leave a marker and return for it when this is over." said Charles. "We can't call in support, so we haven't got a choice. Now come on, ladies. Duty's a-callin'."

* * *

David Petraeus, Four-Star General of the United States Army, was distracted from his coffee by an urgent phone call. Picking it up, he rubbed his eyes and murmured a hello.

"_General Petraeus?_"

"Yes?"

"_We have a situation in Helmand._"

Petraeus sat up. With the Coalition push going on there, which he himself was partly directing, this was indeed enough to grab his attention.

"Explain."

"_As of at least twenty minutes ago, all satellite uplink and communications in the area has been...disrupted. The cause is unknown. Our forces have halted, and we have lost contact with isolated specops squads and units before our main lines._"

Sitting back, Petraeus struggled to digest what he had just heard. This couldn't happen. There'd have to be a mole in the inside, and...ugh. He needed more coffee. As it continued to set in, he found himself struggling to ask questions.

"No ASAT launches detected? From Pakistan or Iran?"

"_Negative. No launches across Asia detected._"

"Can you identify the source of the jamming?"

"_Negative on that too._"

By now, he felt like slamming the phone down and breaking something. Dammit, he was a general of the US army-someone somewhere had to have answers for him!

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

"_Sir, we've been told that...specialists are on their way._"

* * *

"The order has come from Mullah Omar himself! We go to destroy the Yankee dogs while they chase their own tails!"

Along with several other Taliban insurgents, ranging from recruits from local tribes to Pakistanis who had joined the cause, Hamidi raised his Kalashnikov aloft as he piled into the back of a technical not far from his previous position. Brothers all over this area were moving and mobilizing to finally take the fight to the infidels; with the infidel flying machines no longer streaking over the battlefield, like the cowards who refused to fight on the ground like real men that they were. With the last militant barely aboard the modified Toyota, Hamidi held on as the vehicle surged forward, with the lights on-it was not like it mattered in this situation.

"What do we do now?" one of them asked to the senior militant among them.

"We are not far from a village loyal to us." he announced. "We will join with more brothers there and stock up on ammunition. Then, we attack the stupid Americans! I will like to see the looks on their fat, overstuffed faces when we come!"

Hamidi grinned as the technical careered through rocks and ruts, with the driver apparently having little concern for the safety of his passengers. He looked forward to finally fighting the infidel; now he could properly claim to be actually earning the Afghanis he was being paid, which would go down to his family on the other side of the province-without the money the gracious Mullahs paid him and the other warriors of Islam alongside him, his wife and daughters would have surely starved by now. And if he was to fall, then Allah in his grace would surely bless the family of a martyr with good fortune.

"So, Hamidi," grinned Abdul, one of the other militants there, "do you know how to make an American go down easily?"

"I don't know. How?"

"Stand there-in those thick vests they wear, he will suffer a stroke in moments!"

The militants laughed as the technical continued to career through the bumpy landscape, throwing up dirt in its wake. Lights peppered the horizon from American artillery and battles were brothers were no doubt laying their lives down for Islam.

"Oh, Abdul, man!" laughed Hamidi. "You are such a joker!"

"I've got more." grinned Abdul. "How about the one where an American infidel and a British infidel meet, and..."

"Hold on!" called the driver as the technical came to a halt, almost causing them to spill out. They had arrived at the village-it was darker and quieter than Hamidi had expected. Then again, in the face of an infidel onslaught that they had been fearing up to now, he was not surprised if the brothers in the town had chosen to play subtle.

"Come on." said Abdul, as they disembarked, brandishing their Kalashnikovs and RPGs. "Let's find the others."

The sooner the better, thought Abdul, as they made their way into the village. A strong will for Jihad ran in his family-his father had served in the Mujahedeen, and his grandfather against the British. Afghanistan had been defiled by foreign invaders for too long in its history; once they expelled these infidels, she would finally rise from the ashes and take her place in the world under the guidance of Allah.

"Hey!" one of the insurgents knocked on a door. "Open up!"

No reply. With that, he knocked the door down, peering inside. The interior was empty, with furniture overturned, items scattered around, and the windows broken; it was as if they had left in a hurry. Why? It made no sense. The villagers here were reportedly loyal to the cause of the Taliban.

"Look at this." snapped the militant as he found an old, dusty Walkman on a bed. "Perhaps these people were not as pure as we thought."

"There are non-Pashtuns in this place." mused Hamidi. "This hovel is no doubt one of theirs."

"Come on!" someone shouted from ahead. Carrying on, Hamidi paused when the sound of something walking on metal resounded nearby-looking around, he briefly saw dust being thrown up on one of the roofs, but nothing there. Probably the wind, he thought, shrugging his shoulders and carrying on. The darkness certainly was not helping in him trying to overcome his imagination.

"Have you seen Karim anywhere?" another militant ahead asked them.

"No. Wasn't he right with you?" Abdul asked.

"He was a moment ago."

"Probably just got ahead of you. This darkness isn't helping things."

As they neared the center of the village, Hamidi froze as something shuffled above him-raising his Kalashnikov in that direction, he could see nothing but the sky, with a slight shimmering atop the nearby roof. The heat, he thought to himself. It's just the heat. He tried not to recall the tales his mother had told him of demons who would come in the night to take away naughty children-that was not the sort of attitude needed here.

"Oh, Allah in heaven!" some shouted. Running forward, Hamidi found the militants entering the main structure in the village, and nearly swore aloud at what he saw. Brothers, skinned alive and hanging from the ceiling, with the place stinking like a slaughterhouse. This was just...it could not be the infidels, not even they would go so low. It could not be the villagers, for they would not overcome brave warriors of jihad so easily. It could not be wild animals, for they could surely not be so precise here.

"Do you have the feeling someone's watching you?" whispered Abdul in his ear.

"I'm...not sure." breathed Hamidi, looking around. As he turned his gaze away, there was a scuffling sound behind him-spinning around, he saw that Abdul was gone. Looking up, he could just about see a foot disappear through a hole in the ceiling, and he glimpsed yet more shimmering up there. In shock, he squeezed the trigger of his Kalashnikov, letting off a few rounds.

"What was that?" snapped the senior militant. "Where is the brother who was with you? Why are you making so much noise?"

"Men," breathed Hamidi, trying not to conceal his fear, "there's something out there waiting for us...and it isn't a man."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is Cobra 2, requesting backup! _Requesting backup!"_

Strapped into a cockpit of a UH-60 Black Hawk, US army pilot Samantha Greenspan gritted her teeth as RPGs shot by the fuselage of the helicopter-it was like fucking Mogadishu all over again. She had been screaming into her radio headset for backup for what felt like forever, but had recieved nothing but static. Her objective to drop Marines here into this town deep within Taliban-held territory had been completed, but with seemingly every fucking Mohammed in this shithole packing serious heat, getting out was proving a nightmare. The UAV and F-22 support she had been promised hadn't shown up, flares were running low-what kind of clusterfuck was this?

Turning her head from side to side, she finally glimpsed gunfire lighting up part an intersection in the town-she could just about make out the distinctive shape of an Abrams. Grinning, she brought down the throttle and headed towards there, as more RPGs shot by. She'd link up with friendlies and stay with them until reinforcements got their sorry asses over here.

For a moment, she wondered just what those three little red dots on the windscreen were.

An explosion tore through the Black Hawk moments later, causing her to scream aloud as the helicopter began to spin out of control-had one of those damn RPGs hit? She braced herself as it finally crashed into the middle of one of the streets, the shock shaking every bone in her body. Unstrapping herself, she produced a pistol, shooting open the windscreen, and getting out, trying to ignore the pain surging through her, and the blood spilling out of cuts all over her body. Gunfire and shouts rang out what felt like mere meters away-one fuckup, she knew, and all would be over for her.

Cries in Pashto came from somewhere nearby as she readied her pistol-moments later, AK-47 brandishing Taliban militants spilled out of a nearby building, shouting at her and motioning at her to get down. She attempted to aim her gun, but the weakness simply sapped out of her-slowly, she beagn to get down.

"_Amerriccaan!_" growled one of the militants, knocking her face in with his rifle butt, spitting out the English word in a heavy Pashtun accent.

"Go fuck yourself." she snarled.

Exchanging a few words, the militants laughed, then began to approach her, again motioning for her to get down. Then, the lead militant paused as the same little red dots she had seen on the windscreen appeared on his chest. Just what did that...

The Taliban soldiers again exclaimed in surprsie as his head exploded like a ripe fruit from sort of...blue energy bolt? Her eyes widened in shock as a translucent figure leapt down from a nearby building, with some sort of shuriken-like weapons flying from it, slicing through the Taliban soldiers like they weren't there, sending limbs and heads flying to the floor. Turning around, the rest opened fire with their Kalashnikovs, spitting hot spent shells onto her, but the...thing...merely ducked out of the way, before pouncing forward, knocking them down and cleanly tearing their throats out.

Samantha tried not to scream as the figure turned towards her-she could just make out the outline of a head looking down on her, scanning her, almost, eyeing up her wounds. Then, it ran off into the smoke and the dust, vanishing from sight. Trying to get up, she tried to process what she had just seen. What the hell was that? Some sort of guardian angel? Or was she just being delirious?

"Hey!" she looked up and breathed a sigh of relief to see what looked like a squad of Rangers running towards her. Exhaling, she reached forward as they grabbed her and began to help her along further up the street.

"Jesus H. Christ, you really took care of yourself, didn't you?" said one of the Rangers, gesturing at the torn corpses of the Taliban insurgents at their feet.

"I'm...not sure that was me..." she breathed.

"Oh. Crash got 'em, huh? Well, the more dead ragheads, the better. Come on!"

They took her up the street to an intersection, where the Abrams she had seen from the air was present, with soldiers taking cover around it, some of them still shouting uselessly into radios. The M2 Browning atop the tank were furiously blazing away, laying down suppressive fire into the street ahead, with dust and smoke obscuring the view there. Placing her by the tank, the Rangers let off a few more shots there as erratic AK fire came from the dust, the rounds harmlessly impacting into the asphalt.

"Comms not working for you?" she said to them.

"Lady, comms ain't working for nobody. I dunno what the fuck is going on, but it ain't good."

No shit, she thought. Brass were no doubt shitting their pants, which no doubt explained the lack of support. But why? Had the Taliban somehow hacked the Pentagon? Had Pakistan or Iran gone insane and taken out the satellites? It was all simply incomprehensible to her.

"Sir!" A soldier stuck his head out of the turret of the tank. "Motion sensor's picking something up, coming this way, very fast!"

"A vehicle?"

"Uh, no. If I'm reading it correctly...it'd be inside the buildings. Or on the rooftops, as it just..."

"Check 'em again, that can't be right!"

Samantha tried to sit up and say something, but again, her lack of strength prevented her. She spluttered out something incomprehensible as again, those three little red lights tracked their way across the tank, finally settling with the soldier sticking out of the turret as he reloaded one of the machineguns.

A blue burst shot down from one of the rooftops, blasting apart the poor soul and taking a good chunk of the Abram's turret with it, engulfing it in smoke. She found herself sitting there helplessly as the men scattered, seeking cover, as again the smoke billowing moved in accordance with sme nearly invisible human-like shape, leaping down like a monkey, slicing into one of the Rangers as he fired wildly with an M16. Turning around, the Rangers fired wildly into the smoke, as more shurikens shot out, slicing through their body armor just as easily as it had with the Taliban soldiers. As two of the soldiers tried to take cover behind a car, a net was fired out of the smoke, striking them and pinning them to the car as the wires of the net cut through their flesh.

Leaping towards the rest of the Rangers as they forced open a nearby building door, the figure produced some sort of staff, and cut into them before they could turn around, splattering their entrails onto the walls. Samantha continued to watch as it set about tearing the head off one of the soldiers, before passing out.

* * *

Momentarily checking his compass, Captain Hassan of the Afghan National Army's ANA commando battalion gazed towards the lights of fires and munitions being exchanged in the distance that betrayed the presence of the town they had made their destination; Coalition Forces had advanced into it the day before or thereabouts, he knew, and would currently be engaging in brutal street fighting with Taliban insurgents, which would not be made any easier by the lack of communications. His land had already known enough violence and brutality over the years; the sooner it could all end, the better.

The presence of these foreign soldiers was doing much to reassure him, however. He recalled back when the Taliban had taken over-they had burned the books he had collected, including the ones he had brought for his daughters to go to school-not that they would be allowed to go to school in those days. In his small apartment in Kabul, he had forced to discreetly homeschool his children, hoping that the illiterate religious police who knew nothing of the old Afghan folk tales or of science and literature would not notice. Even as a good Muslim who recognized the need for women to be modest, he considered their measures too far. The Taliban branded their opponents enemies of Islam, whereas it was they who were the true affronts to the Koran.

"So then, Captain," Charles the black-skinned American said to him, "what's the best entry point for this craphole?"

Craphole this, shithole that. He was grateful for the Americans for ousting the Taliban, but not for the further violence and destruction they had brought to Afghanistan, and certainly not for the flippant attitude they took to her features and inhabitants. Their President Obama had promised a quick end to this war; that was one promised he hoped he would follow up on.

"If I remember correctly, there should be some slums on the east side that the Taliban and your forces would ignore; we can enter through there without too much risk of harassment." he said.

"You'd better be damn right." said Charles. "Beaver and Boston, take point."

Hassan glanced to the two Afghan soldiers with him-Shah and Khan, their names were, but he knew little else about them. In his service in the Afghan army, he had lost many comrades in battle over the years; he had thus decided to never get too attached or familiar with those who served alongside him, or otherwise he would surely suffer disappointment and sadness should they fall in battle. After all, they were but Afghanis; whereas fallen American soldiers and their foreign allies would gain sobstories in their homeland media, his people were but statistics on a graph.

The men quietly and quicky moved down a slope towards the boundaries of the town, as the sounds of RPGs being fired and machinegun fire being exchanged rang out from up ahead. Parts of the dark night sky above were bathed in orange glow from the fires and explosions taking place below them, as helicopters and tanks attempted to manouever their way past enemy rocket units, confused and panicked by their inability to call for support. Hassan could faintly make out the shape of what he supposed were American spy drones in the skies above, but he wasn't sure.

"In here." he breathed to the others, as they found themselves making their way through a tight suburban street, with simple dwellings to their side and bullet-riddled Soviet-era apartment blocks looming in the distance, looking dark and imposing in this dark as they were lit up with fires and explosions. The windows were closed or boarded up; he wondered if there was anyone at all in there. Keeping their heads down and sticking to the shadows, the soldiers stepped through the rubbish and dirt lining it, as night-vision goggles were adjusted and silencers fixed.

"Wait." one of the SAS soldiers paused. "I think..."

"What is it?" snapped Charles.

"I think we're being watched..."

"Tell me when you're sure, not when you've got a fucking hunch, you damn Limey. Could be just a goddamn cat."

"I hope..."

They continued to move as the same feeling that there was something out there fell over Hassan. Looking up, he could have sworn he could have seen movement up on one of the rooftops overlooking him. Perhaps it was just his imagination. Perhaps, as the coarse Yankee said, it was just a cat.

"Okay. Move fast, and keep behind cover." breathed Charles as they finally entered a deserted street, with a barricade blocking up one part of it. The street lights were out, with a burning car on the other side providing the only visible source of light. Briefly ducking behind a parked van as one of the Marines quickly scanned the nearby buildings, they quickly ran from vehicle to vehicle, pausing for cover and to check their surroundings.

"Sounds like M16 fire over there." said Charles, pointing in a vaguely northern direction. "Come on, faggots, let's shake it."

The team continued to move past several blocks, keeping to the shadows, as they passed wrecked vehicles and buildings ruined by mortar fire and artillery, coming across what looked like bodies that had been torn apart by machinegun fire or shrapnel. Finally, turning a corner, they came to an intersection, and paused in shock-the place was dotted with the mauled bodies of US Rangers, with a wrecked Abrams tank parked in one section, with a single female pilot lying beside it, clearly wounded.

"Gentlemen," breathed one of the Canadians, "I think our phantom butcher has struck again."

"No shit." said Charles, as he approached one of the bodies, which looked like it had been cut up with a knife.

"Help..." they looked towards the barely semi-conscious pilot, as she reached out to them. One of the SAS soldiers ran forward with a medical kit, and began to help her up, as the others went around inspecting some of the corpses, with many of them missing heads.

"Did you see what happened?" asked the Britisher.

"It was...like a demon...invisible...cut them to pieces..." she gasped.

"What does that mean?" asked Charles.

"It means," said the lead Canadian, "that there is something or someone out there who thinks it's in his right to go around slaughtering who he pleases. In which case, it's our right to find him and kick his ass."

* * *

Reviews, please!


	5. Chapter 5

"My name is Samantha Greenspan. Black Hawk Pilot. My vehicle just got shot down and I just saw a squad of men ripped apart in front of my eyes. So forgive me if I'm kinda fucking _scared out of my mind._"

Inside a small apartment overlooking the intersection where the dead Rangers had been found, the team assessed their weapons as Samantha was tended to. Hassan and Charles were inspecting a map of the city as the sound of mortars and heavy machinegun fire echoed outside, with dust falling off the walls with each impact. Cleaning his rifle, US Marine Wilkens Portnoy tried to think about what had happened; so far, they had lost a member to a team to an unknown enemy who had presumably also slaughtered the Rangers down there, with very little evidence of a struggle; he hadn't counted many fresh shell casings down there on the ground. He had served in Iraq, Somalia and Desert Storm, but nothing, _nothing _had prepared for him for such a clusterfuck as this. Charles, hard-assed and rude though he was, was nonetheless a competant Marine, and hopefully would find a way out of this. Other than that, he was seconding the Canuck's notion that they needed to track down the fucker behind all this and bring him to justice, even if meant compromising the mission.

"So, start from the beginning." Sean the Brit was saying to her. "You said what appeared on your helicopter..."

"Three little red lights."

"And then what happened?"

"Half the damn fuselage was blown off."

"RPG?"

"If it was, I'd fucking know!"

"Easy now, love. Just take a deep breath and carry on. So, you crashed into a street?"

"Taliban soldiers set on me. Fuckers were about to rape me or something, when...look, you'll have to believe me...some sort of invisible _thing _slaughtered the lot of them. Rangers found me, dragged me to that position, it did the same to them. Blew up the tank with some sort of...ray gun, I don't know."

"Listen to this." snapped Harris. "She's delirious. Listen, ma'am, I understand you've been through a lot, but please..."

"Shut it." said Charles angrily. "I've thought about it, and think about it; we know that there's something that just killed a group of US army soldiers just like that, and if I can believe that, I can believe it's invisible and shooting fucking beams out of its cock or whatever. Point is, we need to find it. You, limey-got any ideas?"

"Well, let me see if we've got any operational infra-red..."

They paused as what sounded like footsteps echoed out on the roof ahead. The sound of a cat meowing followed shortly after.

"Hassan, get one of your men to get that thing off, it's gonna give me a headache." snapped Charles. Hassan said something to one of his men, who nodded and headed up to the roof.

"The thing is," Harris was saying, "half this town is in Talibna control-and now that our forces have lost comms, they're not going to hang around. We need to link up with..."

"We could spend hours running around looking for friendlies while that invisible asshole is going around ripping more guts out." said Charles dimissively. "We're supposed to be fucking covert, so let's act that way."

"Fine. I don't know if our UAVs have been effected by this ECM or whatever the fuck's causing this, but I say we find a connection and..."

"_**ARGH!**_"

Portnoy instinctively released the safety on his M4 Carbine as he sprinted up the stairs to the roof, with the others following quickly. Something told him that that poor Afghan fellow hadn't just stumbled on a cat.

"Shit! This is all my fucking fault!" he heard Charles shout over the sound of heavy footsteps. "Should've sent company! Should've-"

Bursting out onto the roof, Portnoy managed to catch a glimpse of some hulking, animal-like shape in the process of doing...something...to the mutilated body of the Afghan soldier before he jumped into cover behind a roof vent. Letting off a burst in surprise, Portnoy waited a moment as the others joined him, looking out across the war-torn city, glimpsing explosions and the flashes of tracers in the distance.

"It's behind that chimney." he breathed. "On my mark, we take it from all sides. Three, two, one...go!"

The men charged towards it, surrounding it, pausing as they found absolutely nothing there. Portnoy rubbed his eyes. It couldn't have just vanished...wait. Damn. The fucker had probably turned invisible. Well, at least he had some idea of how it looked like.

"Over there!"

He span around to see an outline of a figure running across a nearby rooftop, and immediately opened fire, with the others laying down suppressive alongside him. Bullets impacted around the figure as it leapt forward onto another rooftop-damn, it was fast-and he grinned in satisfaction as one of them grazed its leg, causing it to lose balance and plummet down to the ground below.

"We tagged the fucker!" he shouted.

"Right on!" said Charles. "Everyone, get down to that location, stat! No man could have survived a fault like that!"

"You sure it's a man?" asked one of the Brits.

"Oh, yeah. Like they say in the movies, gotta be a rational explanation for that. Most likely a Chinese or Iranian asshole, testing out some new optic camoflague. Now move!"

"What about the helicopter chick?" asked Harris.

"I'm fine." Greenspan appeared at the stairs, with a pistol. "That bastard killed brave men in front of my eyes. Let's get him. Let's get him now."

* * *

"One hundred and fifty Afghanis for the first to kill an American!"

"I'll kill three!"

"I'll kill five!"

"Twenty!"

"Shut up, all of you! Watch and learn from the real men, little girls!"

Holding his Kalashnikov high, Hamidi held on as the technical careered over the landscape towards the town ahead, highlighted by the orange-tinted clouds hanging over it and the flashes of battle and explosions. They had salvaged all they could from the village; they had found no sign of whatever murderers were responsible for the deaths of their brothers there and most of the men were nervous and jumpy, wishing not to be on that land any more than they had to-tonight was no regular night, that was for sure. Nevertheless, they were heading to join their fellow warriors of Islam in the town ahead, where they could use this opportunity to finally push the infidels and their allies out of it, securing another victory for the noble Taliban cause.

In any case, Hamidi had resolved to put the sight he had witnessed in the back of his mind. He wasn't going to dwell on just what had spirited Abdul away like that-it would not do his mind good. Soon, he would finally taste battle against the infidel, and surely with the blessing of Allah he would triumph. Whatever had happened in the village would surely stay in the village-no doubt that land was cursed, the men there punished by spirits as an example. At least now they were a good distance away.

"Get your weapons ready!" Dehqan, the leader, shouted over the growling of the technical's engines and the ever-increasing sound of gunfire and heavy weapons as the buildings of the town loomed up ahead-there appeared no be lights in the buildings or on the streets, and yet most of the place was bathed in yellow glow from explosions and fires. It looked more like a scene from hell than a place where people lived, thought Hamidi. Appropriate for infidels to meet their demise here, then.

"Hold on in the back! If anyone falls out, they can walk!" called the driver as the technical made a hard swerve into a street, with the militants gripping onto the sides. The driver was apparently not letting his foot off the gas, thought Hamidi, as they continued to move and screech through the outer roads of the city, littered with craters from mortar fire and the occassional bullet-ridden corpse of an infidel or a fellow Taliban. They passed one street with a burning wrecked American helicopter lying crashed there-even their vaunted flying machines were vulnerable! So much for American technological superiority! thought Hamidi smugly.

"Okay, guys, we should be...whoah!" The militants were nearly thrown out of the technical as it braked to a sharp stop, in an intersection-orientating himself, Hamidi first noticed a burning infidel tank, then looked upon the various mutilated corpses of American soldiers lying around before them. They did not look like they had been shot with Kalashnikovs or even hit with RPGs, but sliced and diced with claws and blades-more witchcraft? Had Allah tired of this war and sent down demons to punish all down here? He didn't want to know. To be killed by a demon...that was not a fate he wanted his children to remember him by.

"Why are you stopping, you idiot?" snapped Dehqan. "So there are some dead Yankees-so what? Clearly, we've got a lot of catching up to do with our brothers here! Step on the gas!"

"But sir, it does not look like we did it...I have a feeling that whatever struck the village has made its way here..."

"Nonsense! Nothing is that fast, unless there are many, and if that is the case than either we or the Yankees would have got them. It is most likely just more American technological sorcery-they use their fancy tricks and gadgets to mask a man from a sight, the cowards! Move on!"

Cautiously, the driver began to accelerate, as the militants looked from one to the other-the energy and drive they had been feeling until a moment ago had faded, replaced again with fear and cold dread. Hamidi could practically see it in their faces, as they looked down on the bodies of the dead Americans while the technical drove over them-if these spirits or demons or whatever they were could kill Yankee soldiers just like that, what chance did they have?

"Get a damn move on!" called Dehqan. "You want the Yankees to get us? What are you, afraid of breaking the speed limit?"

"No, it's just that..."

Something shiny, circular, and metallic flew from the side as they drove up the street ahead, slicing clean through the front of the technical and the engine, causing it to judder to a halt. Piling out, the Taliban soldiers looked around in confusion, as Dehqan and the driver looked on in confusion.

"You see? You see, dumbass?" snapped Dehqan, slapping the driver over the head. "A Yankee armor-piercing round, no doubt! Everyone! Don't just stand there, get into one of the fucking buildings, unless you want those damn cowards to get you! Move! Move!"

Quickly, the insurgents ran towards one of the nearby structures-a grocery store, it appeared. Smashing down the boarded-up doors and front windows, they made their way into the darkened interior, some of them grabbing food and money from the till. Being among the last to enter, Hamidi looked up as something moved overhead-he could have sworn he had seen something leap across the street from the building on the other side, but chose not to dwell on it. Looking around him, he disapprovingly eyed the men looting-such behaviour was un-Islamic, but understandable. They had not eaten anything but rations for days.

"Upstairs!" grunted Dehqan, herding them forward. "You move like old women in burqas, the lot of you!"

On the second floor, lit up only by light filtering in from upstairs, the men filed into the various rooms there, sitting down in cover, hopefully out of sight from American snipers. As Hamidi prepared to follow, he became aware of a gagging sound behind him. Turning around, his eyes widened as he looked upon the brother behind him looking forward in shock as a metal staff potruded out of his chest...and behind him, cloaked in the shadows, was some sort of tall, muscular demon with a glinting, metallic face. Hamidi didn't even try to fire at it with his Kalashnikov-what good would that do against a demon? Instead, he turned around and ran, running towards the end of the corridor and stairs that would take him elsewhere-when suddenly a door ahead smashed open, with another similar figure, partially invisible, advancing forward. Hamidi ducked inside another room, slammed the door shut, and peered through the keyhole, trying not to whimper. Looking over his shoulder, he found some other militants with him, as screams suddenly came from the other rooms. What had those poor souls done, to warrant such fury from Allah? They were but mere poor young men trying to defend their homes from these infidel aggressors, in the name of Islam no less.

"Demon!" he heard Dehqan cried out. The man, he knew, had balls-trust him to try and fight such monsters. He glimpsed the man walk forward with a pulwar, presumably taken from one of the rooms, towards one of the demons hulking in the shadows. "Fight me like you have balls!"

The demon produced a staff that seemingly extended out of nowhere, and for a few moments the two clashed, when the demon knocked the sword of Dehqan's hand and impaled him through the chest, before ripping his head clean off. A few moments passed, before it faded away into invisibility.

"To hell with this!" breathed Hamidi, his heart pounding with fear. He ran towards one of the windows, and broke it open with his rifle butt. As he looked down, he saw some infidel soldiers run by, noticing some traitor Afghans among them, pointing towards the roofs-what were _they _after now?


	6. Chapter 6

"We got all sides covered! Move it, move it!"

Peter Travis of the SAS checked his weapon as he and the Marine squad, including the helicopter pilot they had picked up, charged towards the alley where that weird-arse figure they had seen had fell into-right now, he just didn't know what to make of all this shit. He had joined to to get the thrill of shooting a man's heart out, to watch someone bleed to death, not to engage in some cat-and-mouse chase with an enemy that wouldn't show itself. If they caught this bastard...he could already imagine the ways he could make him squirm.

"New guy!" Charles yelled to the Marine who had joined them out there in the hills, which felt like an eternity ago now. "What's your name again?"

"O'Neil, sir..."

"Chuck some flashbangs in there now! Everyone else, move in as soon as it's clear!"

Travis paused as the young-looking Marine chucked a pair of grenades in there, before the Americans and SAS squad charged into the alleyway, the Canadians and Afghans coming in the other side at full throttle. The figure would surely be wounded after such a fall, meaning he couldn't have got far; the fact that he had apparently leapt over rooftops meant that he wasn't normal, but that didn't mean he wasn't immune to bone injury. Just what was that freak anyway, that had, as far as they could tell, slaughtered a squad of US soldiers _in melee _and shot down a helicopter, and now killed two of their own? A mutant? Some genetically-engineered thing let loose by the Chinese or Russians? Didn't matter. He had joined the Service so he could kill things, in the name of England of course.

"There's...nobody here." The four squads met each other in the middle of the alleyway, looking around.

"Look in the dumpsters! Do I have to do all the fucking thinking in here?" snapped Charles-damn Yankee throwing his weight around. They thought that just because America a different president they could do what they wanted. In any case, time to find this freak. He smashed aside boxes, tore open the dumpsters; so far, nothing.

"Hey!" he turned around to see that helicopter pile looking at a small patch of what he at first assumed to be fluorescent paint of some kind. Approaching it, they found her dipping her finger into it; it was still fresh.

"What is that?" asked Sean. "Paint?"

"No..." she said, rubbing it on the wall-it didn't stick. "I'd say...blood..."

"What the fuck has blood like that?" asked Charles.

"Something that can jump on rooftops like fucking Batman, kill the best trained soldiers in the world, and has weaponry I haven't seen at a goddamn redneck gun store." she said darkly.

"I guess we may as well not mince words." said Harris. "It's a fucking alien. No two ways about it. I'm goddamn serious."

"Wait..." She pushed aside some more boxes, revealing what looked like a trail of blood, stopping at the base of a window. They paused, and in between the constant gunfire in the distance, they could make out some sort of roaring from inside. Standing atop some boxes, the pilot looked inside the window, as Travis took a step back; with night-vision goggles, he could just barely make out some figure...stabbing itself with something?

"Pop some in there." said Charles silently, to one of the Marines, who quietly prepared a frag grenade, unpinned it, and tossed it in there. The squad took a step back, before the grenade detonated, blowing dust and debris out of the window. Moments later, they opened fire, letting loose dozens of rounds straight through the window. After several bursts, Charles indicated to hold their fire.

"Did we get it?"

"We'll see in a sec..."

There was a paused, before a spinning disk shot out of the window, bouncing off the walls and striking Travis's shoulder, slicing his left arm clean off his shoulder. As he screamed in pain, the agony hitting him a few moments later, a figure leapt out of the window and sprinted down the alley, zig-zagging as the squads opened fire-damn, that fucker was fast. With the squad running after it, Travis tried to ignore the pain like a proper British soldier and attempted to get a good look at it; it was muscular as hell, with some sort of strange belt, and...dreadlocks?

Up ahead, a Humvee with a minigun atop paused in the street as the thing leapt right out, apparently...smashing straight through the armored roof of the Humvee and pulling out the driver? He paused as the team burst out just as the creature decapitated the driver and leapt across the street and onto a fire escape, running up it like an Olympic sprinter. As the men around it unsuccessfully attempted to take pot shots at it, the pilot leapt onto the Humvee and put herself behind the minigun, swiveling it in the thing's direction.

"I gotcha, motherfucker." she snarled. "I gotcha."

The minigun spun up and began blazing away, sounding like some sort of demonic lawnmower, the bullets tearing through the rusty metal of the fire escape just as the thing neared the top. Bullets apparently struck its leg, causing it to cry out-it sounded like some sort of _gorilla. _By now, Travis knew one thing: this was no human, modified or otherwise.

As the creature neared the top, bleeding that strange blood as rounds from the minigun struck it, it finally collapsed...as more outlined figures appeared at the top, grabbing it and vanishing away. More of them?

Shit.


	7. Chapter 7

"It's a fucking alien alright. Or should that be aliens?"

For O'Neil, it had been a long night, to say the fucking least. Not only had they completely deviated from their objective, but now they were up against, well, fucking aliens. Fucking aliens that could take bullets and slaughter Ranger squads, apparently. This entire situation felt so much like some sort of surreal bad dream that for now he was taking it in stride. Hopefully he'd wake up at some point, and he back at camp, with his nose in someone's armpit hair.

"Some first contact." muttered one of the Canadians.

"Actually," said one of the other Marines, "I have a friend in the LAPD who once told me about..."

"We haven't got time for that now." snapped Charles. "The fact is, we have several hostile beings going around murdering NATO troops. We're going after them, before they kill anyone else. If any one of you fuckers hasn't got the balls, say so now."

Silence.

"Glad to hear that. We can't tell command, so it's lone wolf mode for us now, unless we can meet with anyone else."

"But how do we start?" said one of the SAS squads. "I mean, those fucking things can jump across rooftops and turn invisible. How exactly do we track something like that?"

"They are hunters." mused Hassan suddenly. "It is the only logical explanation for all the carnage they are causing. And to draw out a hunter, you must present worthy prey."

"Enough with the fortune cookie shit and get to the point." snapped Charles.

"We should find an optimal ambush place and wait for them there." said Hassan. "We wounded or killed one of their own. Naturally, they will want revenge, or will want to eliminate us a threat."

"How do we know they won't be preparing to ambush _us_?" asked Sean.

"That is a chance we have to take."

"If you say they're hunters," said O'Neil, speaking up, "then they'll be heading to the place where they can get the most prey. That would be wherever the worst fighting's taking place in this town."

"And more opportunity to link up with friendlies." mused Charles. "Glad there's at least one motherfucker with his brains still in his head. Alright, assholes, you ready to move?"

* * *

"Did you see that? They...they...shot at the demon!"

From behind the front window of a darkened grocer's, Hamidi and the handful of militants who had managed to evade the invisible demons with him watched the infidels fire at what he guessed was one of the demons down the street, one of them manning a machinegun from atop one of their armored vehicles. After a few moments, they ceased fire, looking confused, before they began a conversation of some sorts.

"And the demon did not strike back." mused Hamidi. "Either they killed it, or wounded it enough for it to run away."

"Then more of the demons will come for them!" said one of the other insurgents in panic. "We must kill them, so they will not have a need to return here!"

"Don't be foolish." snapped the soldier to his side. "They have more and better guns than us, including that...a 'Hamveei', I think they call it. We must be patient."

"Patient?" said the first one. "We are being preyed upon by demons! We have infidels crawling all around us! We must act now, or we are doomed!"

"Shut up, or they'll hear us!" snapped Hamidi. The foreign soldiers, including the traitor Afghans with them, were still talking. He wondered just what about.

"Argh!" The panicking militant finally grabbed his Kalashnikov, as the conversation seemingly began to draw to an end. "I'm sorry, brothers! I cannot take it anymore!"

He smashed through the window in front of them with his rifle butt, screaming and crying to himself. Hamidi tried to hold him back, but the man swung at him with his rifle, forcing him to lurch back. He desperately began to scramble for the back of the shop as the man charged towards the foreigners, firing wildly-he was riddled with bullets moments later.

"Stupid fool!" cried Hamidi as he began smashing down a door at the back of the room. Ironically, even now as he tried to hide from them, he had a plan to follow those infidels-they at least had firepower, and he felt safer near that than wandering around with demons on the loose tonight.

* * *

Driving through one of the larger streets, beset by sporadic gunfire and mortar strikes, a column of US supply trucks, escorted by Humvees, moved towards where they guessed friendly troops were positioned-even though they could no longer communicate, they still intended to deliver ammunition and supplies to the men holed up here. Anything had to be done to make them last longer.

In the forward Humvee, the drivers kept an eye out for RPGs on the rooftops and car bombs-the Taliban had many nasty tricks when it came to urban warfare, they knew, and they had already had to stop the convoy to push aside roadblocks. Black Hawks also being sent in for supply were being harassed by RPGs, with at least one shot down-it was like fucking Mogadishu all over again, some veteran soldiers mused.

The driver was, however, momentarily confused when three little red dots in a triangular pattern appeared on the windscreen.

The convoy came to a halt seconds later when the Humvee was blown apart by what looked like a pulsing blue bolt, with the truck driver immediately behind it trying to trace where it had come from-he couldn't see anything on the rooftops. To the rear, another explosion flared as the Humvee at the back was also blown apart, hemming the trucks and their remaining escorts in. The drivers and troops with them began to panic-the Taliban surely didn't have anything this powerful, so what had happened? Had they seized anti-vehicle munitions?

All those questions would soon be forgotten as a pair of figures jumped down from the rooftops, having got the convoy just where they wanted.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony Krajewski, Canadian Special Forces, followed the rest of the team as they ran towards the sound of explosions a few blocks away-he wasn't sure if running _towards _the carnage was the best idea here. He had already lost one good teammate tonight; but like the ideal soldier that the generals would want, he had done his best to put that to the back of his head for now. He was professional, and as such, he understood that this war; grieving over every comrade he lost was merely going to impede him. For now, there was only one thing he had set his mind on: finding whatever the fuck those...creatures...where and kicking their asses.

"O'Neil! Sean! Keep your eyes on the rooftops!" Charles shouted as they ran down the streets, heading towards the sound of carnage. Nearby, Travis, one of the SAS men, carried a pistol in one hand after covering the stub that used to be his arm in bandage, seemingly unconcerned with any pain or bleeding; one tough motherfucker right there, he thought. Captain Hassan, despite already losing a man, seemed stoic and focused; Harris, his own officer, didn't seem to be taking it so well; he had already seen what he assumed were tears whelling in his eyes a few times. Guy had to toughen up.

"Up there..."

They paused as they turned a corner. Down the street, trapped in between the flaming wreckages of two Humvees, was a truck convoy, with shouting and gunfire coming from that direction; a lot of it was obscured by the smoke and fire. Pausing, Krajewski scanned the area ahead with the scope on his C8 rifle; he couldn't make anything out that way either.

"The fuckers are either trying to draw us in or they're different ones." mused Charles. "Either way, we're taking them down."

"How do we do that?" asked Hassan.

"Vantage points. Everyone, inside this building here; we'll take 'em out from the roof or the upper floor, grenades and high caliber."

"What about anyone still alive in that convoy?"

"Don't think there'll be anyone worth shit left in there in a few moments." snapped Charles, as they quickly moved into a nearby apartment building, smashing through the wooden door, which was covered in Taliban graffiti.

Krajewski took a swig from a flask of water before they quickly moved up a flight of stairs, barely pausing for breath. A minute or two passed before they were moving into position atop the roof, with the Marines and SAS men laying down sniper rifles as the others quickly began observing the situation down on the ground through binoculars. They could make out surviving soldiers, fighting against shapes that would materialize out of nowhere, with some apparently on overlooking rooftops. Krajewski winced as he made out an infantryman being pierced through the stomach by some dark monstrosity appearing behind him, viewing it through his rifle scope, before the man got his head ripped clean off his spinal cord.

"What the fuck are you dumbasses waiting for?" snapped Charles. "Pick targets and fire at will!"

Silenced sniper rifles rang out, some of the rounds striking the trucks as they tried to acquire those agile shapes picking off the convoy survivors; some of them were leaping atop the vehicles and nearby balconies, throwing down what looked like spinning disc weapons of some kind. Krajewski, lying prone by the rooftop edge with the others, smiled as he got at least one of the things in the side, splattering a nearby car with fluorescent blood. He could hear the thing roar over the sound of gunfire; yeah, that's right, motherfucker, he thought.

His heart leapt out as Travis cried out, with some sort of spike embedded in his forehead; yelling in pain, the SAS man got up, firing wildly down into the street with his pistol.

"You fuckers!" he shouted. "Fuck you! Fuck you for taking my arm! Fuck you for-"

Another spike struck his chest, causing him to plummet down into the street below. Sean showed no reaction as he continued firing, although his eye momentarily swiveled towards the man's plastered body down on the debris-covered tarmac below.

"Oh, shit!"

Krajewski span around to see the outline of one of the shapes appear on the rooftop edge across, producing some sort of staff. Charles quickly fired a grenade from the launcher in his rifle, blasting the creature off its feet and sending it off the roof. Behind him, the men quickly got up and backed away from the edge as a glowing bolt of some kind of blue energy struck it, causing chunks of brick and masonry to fall down below. Fighting fucking aliens in Afghanistan; he was surprised how well he was taking this.

"Position's blown!" snapped Charles, heading to the edge and jumping down onto the top of a fire escape. "Move it, assholes! Gotta change position!"

Jumping and running down the fire escape, as more gunfire resounded from the direction of the convoy, the team made it to the bottom in a few moments, ducking behind another dumpster as Charles eyed a dead soldier with his head missing not far from the alley entrance, with a FGM-148 Javelin missile launcher slung over his shoulder. As one of the Afghan soldiers tried to move out, a serrated spinning disc shot past him, narrowly avoiding cleaving his head in two.

"We're pinned!" shouted Sean.

"Buncha slack-jawed faggots!" scoffed Charles. "I'll show y'all how this is done!"

Running forward, he grabbed the nearby Javelin from the dead soldier, checked to see if it was loaded, then aimed towards the convoy, pressing the trigger just as three red dots appeared on his chest. A high-explosive ATGM shot out, impacting right into the middle of the convoy, blasting apart one of the trucks and causing a conflagration that engulfed most of the street around it, raining down flaming chunks of metal debris and asphalt.

"Think you got them?" asked Harris as they ran out, trying to make anything out through the smoke.

"If I didn't, then we'll damn make sure next time." snarled Charles as he threw the missile launcher down. He turned around as two Humvees and a Bradley came down the street towards them, with a soldier poking his head out of the lead vehicle.

"What the fuck just happened here?" he demanded. "Raghead ambush?"

"Believe me," said Charles, "much worse. Now, listen to me carefully, 'cause we need backup, and when I say we need it, I fucking mean it..."

* * *

Hamidi observed from the shadows of an alleyway as the dark-skinned infidel talked to the one in the armored machine, with the couple of remaining militants with him breathing heavily behind him. In typical infidel fashion, they had taken on the demons by causing as much damage as they could to themselves and the surroundings; most of the street was now blocked up with burning wreckage and flames that lit up the otherwise darkened surroundings. Some of the men from the armored vehicles were taking away the broken body of an infidel who had fallen from the roof, hit by a demon's spear. At least they had shown to him that the demons could be driven off...with extreme firepower.

"What should we do now, brother?" one of the militants behind him breathed.

"Perhaps we should surrender to them...I would rather be a captive of infidels than be stalked by the demons."

"But they just destroyed the demons!"

"Did they? Look..." Hamidi pointed to some of the infidel soldiers searching the burning wreckage. "...no trace of any bodies."

"Shit." swore the militant. "In that case, I think we should find more of our brothers and continue the fight with them..."

"But they could be hunting us as we speak."

"We have our Kalashnikovs." said the militant, clutching his AK-47 for emphasis. "We have Allah. What could go wrong?"

"Allah?" scoffed the other militant. "Where was Allah when our brothers were slaughtered back in that building?"

"They were obviously unworthy. Allah has spared us because we are true warriors of Islam, as the clerics would say, and...damn it, they're coming. Hide!"

Hamidi noticed a pair of infidel soldiers walking in their direction; years of learning to use the environment around him, to fade away like a ghost, years of hiding from infidels and their war machines, years of simply ekeing out an existence in the worst parts of Afghanistan...he reacted instinctively. Running into the shadows, ducking behind dumpsters and stacks of rubbish, the Taliban insurgents made themselves scarce as one of the soldiers momentarily peered inside the alleyway, before carrying on.

"Alright, brothers," said Hamidi, as he stepped out into a puddle of spilt water, "I think we should...where is Ali?"

One of the two militants was gone, leaving him alone with the other one. Their eyes met, and they tensed up in fear, looking up and around, looking out for any sort of movement. Just as he had feared; the demons did not relent, and it had appeared that Ali at least had exhausted his favor with Allah. Motioning to the other insurgent, they ran further down the alley, ducking under a fire escape.

"This is bullshit!" snapped the militant. "Why do these cowardly demons pursue us? Why do they not fight like they have honor?"

"They are demons. That's why." said Hamidi, as he glimpsed something move quickly in the corner of his eye above. He resisted the temptation to unload his Kalahasnikov up there; he did not have a clear target, nor did he want to attract the attention of the foreign soldiers. Perhaps if...

"Enough of this!" snapped the militant as he stepped out into the open-Hamidi tried to grab him back, but his reach was too short.

"Come out, you bastards!" he snarled. "Come out and-"

A hulking, dark shape materialized out of nowhere beside him, with a face of steel and muscles like a statue, sporting serrated claws and a necklace of skulls around its neck; trophies, Hamidi figured. These demons hunted for sport. Like a man after rabbits. He continued to watch, frozen in horror, as it grabbed the struggling militant and tore his head off, before facing Hamidi.

"Give my regards to Shaitan, fucker." he snarled as he opened fire with his Kalashnikov, sending bullets slamming into the demon's chest, spilling glowing green blood. Snarling, the demon leapt upwards into the fire escape as Hamidi ran down the alley, shouting as loudly as he could. Using as much energy as he could muster, he burst out onto the street, finding himself directly in the path of one of the infidel vehicles as it drove down. Screeching to a halt, narrowly knocking him over, the top hatch of the vehicle opened, as Hamidi dropped his weapon and raised his hand, trying to summon what English he knew.

"Nice night, eh?"


	9. Chapter 9

Reviews, please!

* * *

Lemar Charles considered his options as the Humvees drove towards what the driver told him was essentially an improvised strategic operations command outpost set up behind Coalition lines, while Hassan pumped the Taliban soldier who had given himself in the background. So far, he hadn't told the men who had picked them up about these...these...fucking creatures they had encountered. In all his days as a soldier of the US Marine Corps, fighting in the worst shitholes his country had sent him to in the name of freedom and democracy, he had not been in a situation as fubar as this one, and nor had he lost so many men attached to him in such a short span of time...he was going to do his best not to let emotion cloud his judgment, but those damned fucking aliens or demons or whatever the hell they were, they were going to have it coming.

"Sergeant Charles..." he sat up as Hassan spoke to him. "I have finished interrogating the prisoner..."

"And?"

"He claims that his comrades were slaughtered by invisible demons that fought with blades and magic. Apparently, the demons were stalking them from the village..."

"Did he say anything useful?"

"They can be hurt by automatic rifle fire, as far as I can gather, and they appear to take up challenges...sounds like some sort of code of honor, almost..."

"Honor my fucking ass." snarled Charles. "These damned things have killed a man from damn nearly each of our own squads and have killed more Coalition soldiers than the ragheads did in months. If these fuckers want a goddamn challenge, then I'm gonna give them one."

"Sergeant," the driver suddenly cut into them. "We're here..."

The Humvee pulled into a large parking lot on the outskirts of the town, where several tents had been set up; helicopters and armored vehicles were parked around them, as combat engineers continued to struggle with communications equipment and Rangers moved to set up fortified positions in a perimeter around it. He only hoped that it would be enough to deter those things, he thought; they seemed to seek out death and killing, like fucking hunters, like goddamn predators in the wild...preying for sport, evidently. Whatever the case, they were going to come to him next time, and he'd be ready.

"Finally, some goddamn reinforcements!" A major emerged from one of the tents as Charles and the others emerged from the Humvees. "Can someone now please tell me what the _fuck is going on_?"

"Hmm?"

"I just got a report that one of our convoys was utterly destroyed! I just had a Black Hawk shot down not so long ago! A squad of Rangers, slaughtered! And the Talis aren't faring so good either! I can't contact fucking command, I can't call in backup and support, and I would appreciate it if I got some goddamn information from someone!"

"To our knowledge, there appears to be a third party wrecking havoc, sir." said Charles. "I in charge of a combined special forces squad that was assigned to probe Taliban positions before we had to change our priorities per the change in situation. From what I can gather, we are facing...commandos of unknown origin with advanced camouflage and weaponry, picking off both sides."

"Makes as much goddamn sense as everything else I've been through tonight." muttered the major. "You have any ideas as to what we can do about these so-called 'third party commandos', sergeant?"

"May I speak with you in private, sir?"

"Go ahead."

Charles looked over his shoulder at the others-they were casually conversing among themselves or checking their weapons, stocking up on ammunition from nearby munitions containers. Then, he took the major aside into the nearest tent, filled with useless and flickering readouts and equipment.

"I'm not supposed to be telling you this, sir, but after I was due to complete my assigned objective with the combined squad, I was to link up with a specially selected squad to go further behind enemy lines."

"What for?" breathed the major, lighting a cigarette.

"Sir, when the coalition invaded back in 2001, the CIA began to uncover evidence that the Soviet Union constructed some sort of hidden facility in this region during their occupation back in the eighties. The KGB was quite efficient in covering it all up, apparently, and the Russians claim that they have no records to provide us when we pressed them. We've been trying to pinpoint it since then, but Tali presence made things difficult...however, we recently acquired new intelligence that we believed would serve as fresh leads, and hence, I was to confirm that it was correct with my squad."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked the major.

"Sir, I intend to get back at the fuckers who have been killing my men tonight. And this time, I intend to set the killing ground, not them. I want to draw them out into the open...and I have a hunch that they might be connected to this commie base the CIA Is after, so I have an idea of where to lay down the trap."

"I see." nodded the major. "Well, let me tell you, I've also lost a number of brave soldiers to whoever the hell these people are. As such, with no fresh orders from the top, I'm going to ask you if you need anything."

"Tricky question." smiled Charles. "Quite some, I'd think. We are going to catch some predators, after all."

"Sure." nodded the major, producing a packet of Reese's pieces. "What some candy?"

* * *

In the village, abandoned by local, Taliban, and Coalition soldiers alike, a group of Afghan soldiers, confused and stuck behind enemy lines with the loss of communications, moved in, making sure that there was nothing waiting for them. The Taliban surely could not be behind what was going on, they thought. Those uneducated goat herders surely did not have the know-how. Perhaps it was the Chinese? The Russians, returning in spite?

They moved into the central building, stopping in shock at the skinned bodies hung up there. Had those damned Taliban did this? No, even they would not go so far. They did want to win the hearts and minds of the locals, after all. Had the locals themselves did this, to jihadist militants who had gone too far? No, not their style either.

They looked up as the muffled sound of an approaching helicopter grew in the background; heading outside, they looked up to see a trio of black-colored choppers approach, making surprisingly little noise. What was this? Either way, they looked friendly. Producing a flare gun, the lead Afghan soldier launched one into the air, as one of the helicopters turned towards the village.

"Hey! Hey!" he shouted, as it positioned itself overhead. "You with us?"

He took a step back as several figures, clad in apparel black as the night around them, rappelled down from the helicopters, sporting night vision and infra red goggles that glowed eerily in the dark, making seem more like spirits then men. Nervously, the Afghan took a step back as they landed on the ground; they seemed to sport no insignias of any kind.

"Hello." he said calmly, recalling all the English he knew. "May..."

"No witnesses." growled one of the black-clad wraiths.

Silencer-muffled gunfire rang out as sprays of bullets cut down the Afghans, as the mysterious soldiers with no markings or flag quickly and efficiently swept the village.


	10. Chapter 10

It's all a weird dream. It's gotta be.

O'Neil stood silent as the others talked among each other, with Hassan apparently interrogating the Tali they had captured. As far as he could gather, Charles had decided that they were going to lure those...things...into a trap. Where exactly? He hadn't yet said. How exactly? Ditto. Fucking brilliant, he thought.

"So, I heard you're a rookie, mate." Sean approached him, lighting a cigarette. "Right proper baptism of fire this is, so to speak. We were expecting ragheads, we got fucking Martians with rayguns..."

"Yeah." breathed O'Neil, checking his rifle. At least here in this post they could stock up on all the ammunition they had expended. He had already picked a few grenades, frag and flashbang, from a nearby munitions crate; he had a feeling he'd need it. He'd also seen the Canadian squad leader load another Javelin missile launcher into one of the Humvees; good call, he thought. Good call.

"Not feeling very talkative? The night got to you?"

"No." sighed O'Neil. "I mean...this whole damn thing feels unreal. I'm just expecting to wake up any moment now and find myself in the barracks with the sarge yelling my ass off..."

"Heh." Sean leaned forward and blew a puff of cigarette smoke in his face. "That feel unreal to you, wanker? Reality just got fucked. Betya my arse that-'ssumin' we survive-they'll hush this all up. A satellite failure, or something."

"Yeah." nodded O'Neil. "If those fuckers out there are aliens, I wonder if they've come to Earth before..."

"I was on holiday in California back in, what was it, '97?" began Sean. "Then there was all this hullabaloo about gang leaders being mysteriously murdered and rumors of some sort of government involvement. Then we got all these crazy stories about something on a subway train..."

"Hmm..." murmured Travis. Back then, LA had been having quite the gang problem; all the unusually intense carnage that had occurred over a period of a few days or so had been quietly forgotten, attributed to some gangs capitalizing on the bloodshed. But now that he thought about it...

"And then, back in the eighties, there was some sort of incident in a Central American shithole." continued Sean. "I got some mates in your army who tell me that..."

"Alright! Atten-shun!"

They stood up straight as Charles walked forward, chomping on a cigar, and conversed briefly with Hassan.

"Listen up, assholes! This time we're layin' the trap for these fuckers, and this time we got some proper support! I guess you have a few questions-there just so happens to be a nice spot far away from any civilian or military concentrations where we can set up: an old Soviet bunker that we think we've more or less pinpointed. Our Tali friend claims to know where it is, so we'll let him guide the way."

"How do you know he's not leading us into a trap?" asked the other Brit.

"Because the area he's suggested ain't filled with much in the way of anyone. 'sides, how does he know where to spring a trap when he can't even talk with his pals?"

"How much backup we gettin'?" asked O'Neil.

"We've been spared a couple of Humvees and a few more jarheads." said Charles. "Not the best, but as you can see, we've a fucking war going on. However, we're getting infra-red, motion sensors, the works...when we get there, we'll set up a perimeter that nothing will get through. And then, well, we can the Mulder and Scully types clear up, eh?"

The men nodded, as the engines of the Humvees revved up. On Charles' command, they piled in, accompanied by a group of infantrymen. Would it be enough? They certainly didn't know how many of the things were out there. Or just what the extent of their capabilities were.

"Yo, Charles." snapped one of the other Marines. "How do you know these things will come after us?"

"Trust me." said Charles. "They will."

* * *

As the Humvees drove off, one of the soldiers patrolling the small post paused, as the sensation that something was observing and stalking him overtook him. He had been hearing all sorts of crazy rumors about convoys and squads in the town being ambushed by..._things, _sporting crazy weapons and seemingly popping out of nowhere. For a short while, he had been elated by the arrival of these special forces guys, but now they were driving off, no doubt on some heeby-jeeby sneaky shit.

"Nice night, eh?" said a voice, coming from nearby. Spinning around, the soldier readied his rifle, heading over in that direction.

"Who's there? Rennie, is that you?" he called.

"What the hell, asshole?" Rennie called from a short distance away.

"Did you say something?"

"No. Probably your imagination. Now shut up and keep your eyes open."

Nodding, the man turned as a spear of some kind came flying out of nowhere, piercing his Kevlar armor like it wasn't there and impaling him straight through the heart. Crying out, he fell to the ground as his gun fired wildly, attracting the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Grunting, the major stepped out, demanding an explanation, just as something materialized behind him, stabbing him right through the chest with huge sharpened claws.

Shouting wildly, the soldiers present began to fire madly, mowing into the tents as they tried to hit the things that were seemingly all around them, picking them off at will. One of them unpinned a grenade, and was about to throw it before a spinning disc cut right through his side, spilling his guts out into the cold sand. The grenade rolled away, landing by a box of munitions, before detonating-the resulting explosion and fireball tore up a good part of the camp, raining down flaming bits of tent canvas and debris. Confused and panicked, the soldiers began to shriek hysterically as their morale and co-ordination deteriorated into wild discharging of everything they had, as they were picked off one after the other.

In the distance, the Humvees were just about visible, driving off into the dark, cold rocky wilderness, as mechanically augmented eyes, utterly alien and in human, focused in on them. They were heading towards grounds holy and ancient-and not just to the locals.

The endgame was beginning.


	11. Chapter 11

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Lieutenant Peter Small of the SAS placed a mouthful of chewing gum into his mouth as the Humvee bounced along the seemingly infinite expanse of sand and rock, lit up only by the headlights of the vehicles and by the glow of distant firestorms and explosions. It would be nearly morning, or so he felt, anyway. He tried not to think too much about what he had seen, about how what was supposed to be a simple covert mission with some Yankees and Canucks had turned into a game of cat-and-mouse with, as the Yanks had so aptly put it, 'fucking aliens'.

Anyway, his mind briefly touched on the men the combined squad had lost. Travis had gone down pretty quickly...the man had always seemed a bit odd, perhaps a bit too unwilling to co-operate with anyone who wasn't white and from London, but still a good soldier. But right now, that Yank Charles claimed he had a plan to get back at those creatures. This time, they had a bit of decent firepower and backup.

"We nearly there?" the Canuck sergeant asked.

"Hold on..." Hassan muttered something to the captured Tali, who was supposedly leading them to some old Russian base or whatever. He wondered for a moment just why the Russians would have anything out here as the towelhead jabbered a reply.

"It should be just down this small valley..."

The three Humvees moved towards a large, flat rocky mesa, looking imposing even in this darkness. It appeared to be situated along the edge of an equally low-lying valley, just as the Tali had said. Was this where the commies had built this supposed facility, presumably back in the eighties? Either way, there were plenty of shadows and outcrops-good sniping positions. Checking his L115A1 rifle, he spat out his gum as the Humvees moved to a stop, right near the foot of the rock.

"So, where is this damn bunker?" snapped Charles as the men got out. Hassan translated his question to the Taliban soldier, who in turn gestured to some nearby shadows.

"He claims that the Russians did all they could to make sure nobody would report this bunker of theirs." said Hassan as they walked towards where the insurgent had indicated. "Personally, it sounds like some sort of weapons storage area...perhaps in response to the Mujahedeen..."

"We've been searching for this place for years, and all it took was just to ask..." muttered Charles as he began wiping sand and dust off what appeared at first to be a chunk of rock. Finally, it fell away to reveal a flat piece of concrete, with a faded hammer and sickle painted onto it.

"Bingo. Is that how you say? Bingo?" asked Hassan.

"Keep your damn mind on the job." said Charles. "Beaver! I need this thing opened. The rest of you, get your asses here."

The rest of the squad and the infantrymen that had been sent with him gathered around, as Charles began marking some sort of plan into the sand with his rifle.

"I need y'all in this pattern, right here...night vision, infra red, make sure you're not using those Mark I eyeballs of yours, because against what we're facing, they're obsolete."

"What about the Humvees?" asked Harris.

"Too big targets. Try and see if you can get those .50 cals off them, though. Any questions?"

"Yeah. What if this all goes tits-up?" asked Sean.

"Use your damn initiative." snapped Charles. "That all? Then get moving. I expect our guests to start showing up pretty damn soon..."

Small wiped some dust off his scope as he moved into his designated position-a wisely chosen one in the shadow of a boulder, with a nice view of the valley. He threw down night vision goggles as he lay down prone, made sure he had the right magnification, and waited.

Minutes ticked by. He could lay down here for hours-the training he had went through in Scotland and Wales made this look like nothing. It was those damn Yankees he was worried about. Where they trained for stakeout jobs like this? If they start fidgeting, or getting nervous, they could potentially fuck it all up. Taking a breath, he adjusted his scope, waiting for those...those...fuckers to show up.

His head raised as the faint sound of helicopter rotors approached. Could be backup; if it was Apaches or Black Hawks, it could well be useful. Looking around, he finally saw three black helicopters, almost blending in with the dark sky behind them, approaching their position. Black choppers? Felt like something out one of those bloody conspiracy theories, he jokingly thought.

One of the infantrymen stepped forward out of cover and lit a flare-he was sure if he was a fucking idiot or doing the right thing. Either way, the choppers definitely noticed, changing their course and bearing down on them. There was one odd thing he managed to notice-they didn't seem to be bearing any markings...

That poor sod of a Yankee cried out as he was riddled by gunfire from one of the choppers, as searchlights beamed down on the rest of them, blinding and disorientating them. Small's jaw dropped as more gunfire came down, tearing them apart in their cover; this wasn't just friendly fire. Some bloody wanker up top wanted them dead, for whatever reason. Well, bollocks to that, he bitterly thought.

"What the fuck?" he could hear Charles shout. "Someone tag those goddamn choppers!"

The firing helicopter paused as black-clad figures rappelled down from it, armed with what looked like submachineguns and heavy rifles. Immediately readying his rifle, Small aimed and squeezed the trigger a moment later, watching in satisfaction through his night-vision scope as blood spurted from the chest of one of the figures. The rest immediately leaped for cover among the rocks and lumps of sand around them; they seemed professional enough. Mercenaries? Black ops that even he hadn't been told about?

He snapped out of his thoughts as a blue flash came from across the valley, with the fuselage of the chopper exploding a moment later. The ghouls ran as it spiraled down, impacting into the ground behind them, throwing up dust and sand. The rest of the helicopters peeled away, disappearing over the mesa; what mattered now, however, as that the freakshow had arrived.

"Get down here!" he could hear Sean shout over the sporadic clattering of gunfire. Getting up, he ran down to the uncovered entrance; they had apparently opened it, with the squad quickly filing in. Hassan's surviving man cried out as he was tagged by one of the ghouls; in the heat of it all, it barely registered.

"Cover our arses!" shouted Sean, as he launched a grenade in the direction of the ghouls, as the flaming wreckage of the chopper lit up its surroundings. Small nodded in determination as Sean disappeared into the darkness of this bunker, that had apparently been undisturbed for decades; he managed to spot another ghoul moving from behind a rock, and scored a shot straight through his shoulder.

He became aware of a clicking sound behind him; turning around, he managed to spot an outline on an outcropping rock above. Dropping the rifle, he instinctively reached for his combat knife as it jumped in front of him, looming even over his impressive stature; his knife was ready as it materialized into visibility. Some sort of scaly fucker with a blank metal mask, with wrist-blades clicking into position. Small moved forward, with all the speed and lethality that had been moulded into him during his training; he slashed across the thing's chest, exposing fluorescent green blood. Growling, the creature moved faster than he had anticipated, impaling him right through the chest. As he fell to the ground, he managed to see it glance towards the ghouls as they began firing in its direction, and then disappearing into the bunker, followed by more outlines.

His last conscious memory was one of the ghouls standing over him, face obscured and wearing some sort of fancy set of goggles; a pistol was then aimed in his face, and rang out.


	12. Chapter 12

"Stop! We need a fucking headcount!"

O'Neil uttered a silent thanks as he took in a deep breath and let his beating heart calm down. Here they were, in some dust-covered room deep within this godforsaken place, with the only light coming from their torches and some sizzling flares they had thrown down. Some of the men were wearing night vision goggles, but he wasn't sure if his weren't broken. Either way, he wasn't any less weirded the fuck out; he still had no idea who the hell those damned black-clad goons were, nor did he know if those...creatures were still out there.

"Looks like I'm the only one of my squad left." said Hassan, his face betraying little emotion. "But not the only Afghan." He nodded at their Taliban guide, standing to his side and grinning.

"Same here." said Sean, checking his rifle. "Small, that poor bastard...and they'll release some bullshit cover story, that he died by tripping over his shoelaces, or some bollocks like that."

"I don't reckon we've got long before hostiles show up." breathed Harris. "Know what this place is?"

Walking over to a corner, Charles shone a torch there, revealing a dust-covered crumbling skeleton clad in the tattered remains of a Red army uniform.

"Whatever it is, the Reds didn't exactly abandon it peacefully." he breathed. Illuminating the space around it, he found a cabinet, tearing it open and finding it containing nothing but dust and cobwebs.

"Shit." he muttered, before looking around. "Canuck had a point. Someone will be here soon; those spooks, or the freaks. Lay down claymores outside; better we lay an ambush for them, then go out there and get caught ourselves."

"Wilco." nodded Harris, as he gestured towards his remaining companion, Krajewski, who produced some tripmines from one of his back pouches. As he cautiously stepped out of the door, a burst of silenced submachinegun fire came from down the corridor, causing fluid to spurt from his head.

"Fuck!" snapped Charles as Harris looked down in shock, as the others took positions. "Someone, flashbang, before they..."

O'Neil span around as the distinctive metallic clunking of a grenade rang out; Hassan managed to rush forward and kick it out into the corridor, a second before it detonated, blasting shrapnel into the walls and causing ears to ring. Unpinning his own grenade, Charles waited a moment before tossing it out into the corridor, allowing no time for the hostiles to react before it detonated in a magnesium flash.

Motioning for the remaining Marines to cover him, Charles moved outside, raking the corridor with his weapon. Ducking back into cover, he peeked to see if anyone was still standing, and cautiously took a step out, sighing in relief as he saw the bullet-ridden bodies of a pair of the ghouls lying down on the dusty concrete floor in the featureless dark corridor in front of him.

"No markings." one of the Marines noted, stepping forward and inspecting the body. "Weapons and equipment from all over..."

He removed the man's mask and black helmet, revealing a European-looking Caucasian.

"I'd say mercs of some kind."

"From who?" asked Harris.

"No fucking idea."

"Doesn't matter; they want to kill us, so we'll kill the fuckers first." said Charles. "Move it; I'll bet more will be coming this way."

Forming up behind Charles, the surviving squad members followed him through some more corridors, passing the occasional decades-old corpse in a rotting uniform, before finally entering a larger room, illuminating it with more torches and flares. Tables, some of them sporting ancient, outdated microscopes and laboratory equipment, revealed themselves under the light, as did some notebooks and papers in plastic envelopes.

"Looks like a...nuclear lab." noted Charles.

"Here..." Sean stepped forward and scanned one of the papers.

"You can read that shit?" asked Charles as Sean read over the Cyrillic lettering.

"'course. Don't let the fall of the Berlin wall fool you, mate." breathed Sean. "Far as I can tell, this was to be some sort of place for good old Ivan to dump nuclear material, before they turned into some sort of place for studying some weird shit their archaeologists uncovered in these parts."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, they first noted some old legends of 'demons from Allah' or something coming down to punish sinners, every so often, for centuries. Then, some of their Spetsnaz on anti-Mujahideen missions uncovered little bits of strange metal in some areas...you know, like odd spearheads, what looked like shuriken fragments, and so on...so this became a convenient place to study them, far from Moscow, where people would get nosy..."

"So," they turned around as the Taliban finally spoke up. "It seems...legends come back, for you, eh?"

"You shut the fuck up." snarled Charles. "You're only alive because we have this strange notion of fucking human rights, you know what that means?"

The man simply chuckled and shrugged.

"Thought so. Now..." Charles suddenly froze as three little red lights appeared on his chest. Before he could react, a blue pulse burst from the darkness ahead-only for the insurgent to leap in front of it, allowing it to burst his chest open as he fell to the floor.

"Why...?" breathed Charles.

"You go defeat demons." grinned the insurgent as the life seeped from him. "You do better than me..."

They looked up as a trio of imposing masked creatures emerged out of the shadows across the room. O'Neil tensed himself. Shit was going down, he thought. Shit was going down.


	13. Chapter 13

Captain Hassan froze in shock as the creatures appeared-had they been observing the team for this time? His head span in Charles' direction as the American quickly made a succession of hand gestures, indicating them to get into various positions of cover. Hassan quickly prepared to move-he did not let the death of his last comrade impede his decisions. This was war, and now the crescendo had come. It was him or them.

"_You motherfuckers!_"

As Hassan dived behind a table, Harris, the Canadian, leapt forward as his face contorted into some sort of animal rage, drawing his combat knife and a pistol. The man had lost both his men; had his attachment really been so strong? It was not something Hassan approved of, but as he watched the Canadian propel himself towards the surprised creatures, ignoring Charles' shouting at him to take cover, he could fully understanding what was driving the man.

The largest of the creatures casually extended his wrist blades as Harris met it, impaling him through the side of the chest. Seemingly ignoring the shock and the pain, Harris emptied his pistol right into its masked face while stabbing it furiously with his knife, drawing more fluorescent green blood. Howling in pain, the monster grabbed his head and twisted it off casually, tossing his body aside. Turning back to the others, the thing quickly began to move as grenades were tossed its way.

An explosion tore up part of the room, blasting over the tables and showering the team with splinters of wood, as the creatures leapt aside with surprising agility. Smoke began quickly filling up the rest of the room, as the team backed to the wall and opened fire, raking the space with automatic gunfire. Charles was shouting profanities like a madman, while Sean's face was one of grim determination. Finally, the fire stopped, with the floor covered in spent shells, as they reloaded their weapons.

"That gotta have killed the fuckers." snarled Charles. "Ain't nothin' that can survive..."

Sean froze as suddenly three red dots appeared on his chest, accompanied by what sounded like a weapon firing up.

"Bloody hell." he breathed.

The body of the SAS captain exploded violently as a blue pulse burst out of the smoke, splattering Charles with blood. As the Marine leader looked on in shock, one of the creatures erupted out of the smoke, its mask charred by the explosion and scarred by the debris, grabbing the two Marines to his side and lifting them up, snapping their necks like twigs. Charles and the last Marine, O'Neil, made for the door, as Hassan opened fire at the creature with his pistol-the thing seemed to be only slowed down.

"Come on!" yelled Charles, as the two made for the door. "I'll stop them here!"

"But sir..." breathed O'Neil.

"Goddamit, if these things want to take my fucking head, let them try..." he snarled, as he readied his assault rifle. The creature, its fluorescent blood glinting in the smoke, moved towards him as O'Neil and Hassan made their way out of the room.

"Come here, asshole." he breathed. "Ol' Charles is a-waitin'."

Before the creature could pounce, he leapt forward screaming, dealing a kick right to its chest, knocking it right over. Kicking it right in the neck, he emptied his rifle magazine right into his chest, as it howled in pain. The creature shook and quivered, attempting to shake him off, but Charles simply refused, tossing his rifle aside and emptying his pistol right into the wound on its chest, before finally drawing his combat knife and plunging it right into the creature's chest, covered in glowing green blood. A few moments passed, before finally it ceased moving.

"_That's what you get, motherfucker._" he spat. A clicking sound behind him followed moments later-he span around to see one of the creatures looking right at him, as if curious.

"Yeah, I killed your pal." Charles sneered, showing no fear. "Whatya gonna do? Give me a fuckin' prize?"

The creature made another clicking sound, sounding vaguely like a chuckle. Less than a second later, it impaled Charles right through the chest, before it and its partner made their out of the room.

* * *

"I think they just got the sarge..." breathed O'Neil as he and Hassan made their way through identical concrete corridors, lit up only by their torches and night vision goggles. No sign of the ghouls-had they all been taken care of?

"One of us must get out, at least." replied Hassan. "Nothing else matters."

"What do you think will happen to us? When...if we get out?"

"That should not be your concern." said Hassan simply. "Your only concern should be surviving all this..."

They passed through a pair of broken metal doors-O'Neil wondered blankly what had reduced the base to this state. Didn't look like the Mujahedeen had assaulted it, and the Soviets wouldn't leave the bodies of their own had it been a simple evacuation. But as Hassan said, that didn't matter right now. All that mattered was getting the fuck out of here.

"Shit..." he whispered, as he lit up the area around him. They were surrounded by stacks of crates, emblazoned with red stars and Cyrillic writing. The storage room, it seemed.

"If this layout resembles other Russian bases that were..." began Hassan, when the silence around them was broken by a clicking sound coming from the shadows.

"Go." said Hassan quickly, turning to O'Neil. "I will slow them down."

"You'll die...like the sarge..."

"A glorious death, Insha'Allah." sighed Hassan. "Now! Go!"

Nodding, O'Neil quickly ran off, as Hassan turned back to the shadows. These creatures seemed to seek challenges and trophies; he was determined to give them the former, at least.

"No gun!" he shouted into the darkness, tossing aside his rifle.

"No armor!" he ripped off his protective Kevlar and helmet, down to his vest, before drawing a knife.

"You want a fight? Come and get it! I am ready! Come and taste the mettle of the Afghan people! We have suffered worse things than you!" he shouted, brandishing his knife.

Another click. Then, one of the demons finally emerged out of the shadows, brandishing its wrist-mounted blades and growling, studying him under that expressionless metal mask of its. Hassan assumed a combat stance, knowing that surely the Prophet would be watching over him.

"Allah is with me, creature." he snarled. "I will send you back to your master, wretched beast."

Roaring, the thing charged forward, but Hassan had already side-stepped, scoring a strike on its side with his blade, splattering the metal with green blood. Seemingly undeterred, the creature span around and swiped, only for him to duck and dig the blade into its exposed chest, causing it to cry out in pain. Digging the knife out, Hassan focused, looking for any sort of weakness. The creature in turn seemed to scan him, clicking and snarling. Suddenly, it pounced forward, gouging a wound in Hassan's own side, causing him to yell out. Trying to ignore the pain, he tightened his grip on his knife.

"You are not going anywhere, creature of Satan." he rumbled, before leaping forward, stabbing the knife into the side of the thing's neck, just under the mask. Roaring and staggering back, the creature seemed to keel for a second, before moving forward and plunging its blades into Hassan's chest. As he felt the life drain away from him, he saw the demon fall to the ground, and smiled. He had done his duty for his comrades, and for God; that was all that mattered.

"_There is one God..._" he managed to breathe, before finally all went black.


	14. Chapter 14

"_Your only concern should be surviving all this..._"

Hassan was likely dead by now. Moving quickly through another dusty corridor, with the batteries on his night vision goggles and torch almost depleted, O'Neil felt himself nearly overcome with dread, trying not to think about whatever was stalking him through the corridors of this old Russkie base. He was the last survivor of a squad of a dozen hardened special forces soldiers, picked off by these...these...damn creatures. But Hassan had probably given his life so that he could get out, and damn, he was going to get out.

He remembered the faces he had seen, back in that desert valley, a mere few hours ago; it felt like a few years now. He hadn't been able to read all of them, but he could tell that most of them were brave, determined men, now dead at the hands of these things. Was he really going to run like a coward? Leave them forgotten and unavenged, in this corner of Afghanistan? Not even to get a mention in any newspaper or news show? That just wasn't right. He was going to at least try. Fuck it, he thought; he didn't even know where he was running to anyway.

Ahead of him was another rusty metal door, with some incomprehensible Cyrillic labeling; O'Neil still had seen no clue of just what had forced this place into this state, and he found himself not caring in the slightest. Even if Hassan had taken one of the creatures with him, that still left at least one. Pausing to catch his breath, he took a moment to look around him. What looked like another storeroom, larger than the previous one, or a garage; parked among the stacks of rotting crates and containers around him was a tank, a T-72. In front of it, what looked like a disassembled Hind.

Shutting the door behind him, O'Neil opened one of the containers; it contained various old Red Army weapons, still in pristine condition after all these years. Why had the commies abandoned all this stuff here, to lie under the earth for two decades? Didn't matter. He took off his body armor vest and helmet, leaving them on the ground. He needed more movement, and that stuff hadn't stopped the other guys from being torn apart by those fucking creatures. Taking grenades from the containers, he adjusted their pins, and then took his radio from his vest, cutting it open and taking out the wires. He wasn't going to simply wait for the thing to come and meet it all guns blazing, no. This was going to require a little imagination.

Once he had finished assembling his little surprise, he ran over to the tank, grabbing a fuel canister lying by its side, and ran over to the door, pouring out some of the contents onto the floor. Those things were damned sneaky, he thought, but let them sneak by on wet Soviet tank fuel. He wondered how much time he had left, but didn't try and rush it. One mistake here, he thought, and he would be the one to see this team finished off, dead in the line of duty with nothing to remember them by. Finally, he moved away to a vantage spot, and waited.

A few moments passed, as the light of the torch he had laid down began to gradually fade away. Had Hassan really killed the remaining monsters? If so, why hadn't he shown up? As sweat began to trickle down his back, he suddenly froze as the door creaked open. In this poor light, he could barely see anything, but then he didn't expect to.

Something stepped onto the wet fuel he had left on the floor, and his eyebrow raised as blue sparks crackled above it, as something began to gradually materialize out of thin air. Yes! As a clicking sound came from that direction, sounding almost bemused, O'Neil fully popped out from the hatch of the T-72, grabbing the PK machinegun mounted atop it, and swiveled it in the direction of the semi-visible creature as the torch light finally faded away.

"Fucking lizard." he breathed, before squeezing down on the trigger. The room was illuminated in bursts by the flare of the muzzle, as spent cartridges were spat out onto the hull of the tank. Screaming wildly, O'Neil thought out Charles, the Canadians, the Brits...he had barely known them, barely talked to them, but already they felt like family, family these damn creatures had taken away. As he continued to blaze away, he suddenly stopped as three little red dots crept along the tank's turret.

"Shit!"

O'Neil leapt out of the tank just as a blue pulse shot out from the shadows, ripping into its armor like tissue paper and tearing into the side of the turret. Rolling onto the concrete floor, O'Neil got up as the room was now lit up by the burning of the tank, with more flame than smoke. Looking up, he could see the creature perched on one of the stacks of crates, looking down as if amused. Producing a serrated shuriken-like disc, it threw it down at the grenade trap he had set up, causing him to wince as the thing tore it to pieces. Damn thing was smarter than he had thought. Desperately looking for an idea, he looked in one of the boxes he had opened up, and his mouth spread into a grin.

From atop the crates, the creature jumped down, clicking triumphantly to itself as it was bathed in the orange glow of the fire, moving to where O'Neil had been hiding, extending its wrist-claws. Advanced sensors in infra-red could make out floor that had been warmed up by living flesh, revealing footprints and body flesh. All seemed to indicate that the prey was hiding behind the stack of crates in front of it. Moving forward, the creature slashed at the stack, causing it to topple down, then paused as O'Neil emerged from the shadows ahead, sporting an RPG launcher, taken from one of the crates.

"Bitch-rapin' time." he grinned, looking almost demonic himself in the yellow light. Then, raising the launcher, he pulled down on the trigger, sending the RPG shooting forward right into the creature as it stood as if in shock. O'Neil winced as the explosion and blast warmed his face uncomfortably, before dropping the RPG and waiting for the smoke to clear. Had he killed the fucker? The ones before were tough, but could even they had survived this.

A pained growling came from ahead, as O'Neil stepped through the smoke. Evidently, it could. Stepping on the splinters of smashed crates, he found the thing lying at the foot of a container stack, its chest scarred and bleeding bright green blood, and its metal mask cracked and charred. Clicking angrily to itself, it began to struggle off the mask, as O'Neil watched intently. Finally, to see the real face of these damned fuckers from outer space, or from hell, or whatever. He took a deep breath as it finally tossed the mask aside, and his mouth opened. Staring right at him was some sort of hideous crab-like visage, with clicking mandibles, sunken yellow eyes, and jagged tattoos right across its large forehead, as it roared a challenge of defiance towards him.

"You." spat O'Neil, as the creature rushed at him. Stepping back, he saw an AK-74 by his foot, from one of the crates, and scooped it up as he sidestepped out of its path, avoiding being disemboweled by its serrated-wrist blades.

"Are."

Aiming the assault rifle, he emptied up into the creature's back, as it roared in pain. Spinning around, it leapt forward and sliced the forward half of the rifle in half, only for O'Neil to body slam right into it, producing his combat knife from his belt and digging it right into its chest.

"_ONE UGLY MOTHERFUCKER._"

Howling in agony, the creature stepped back, seemingly overcome by its wounds, before collapsing to the floor, its back against the wall, looking up at him with a scowl that read fury. Chuckling, O'Neil began to walk towards it, brandishing his knife.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Now, what to do with _you_, pussyface? Whatchya gonna do?"

The thing croaked something at him, as if trying to say something; it took O'Neil a few moments before realizing it was trying to vocalize something in English. A mercy plea? A final fuck you?

"_Nice...night...eh?_" it growled, before finally it began to manipulate what looked like a miniaturized computer of some kind on its wrist. Raising his eyebrow, O'Neil's eyes widened as suddenly alien symbols began to count down, accompanied by beeping.

"Oh, fuck you." he breathed, before sprinting out through the door, as the thing made a cackling sound after him, echoing through the corridors as he ran through, trying to get as far away from it as possible. Turning a corridor, he suddenly found himself looking at the entrance, dead ahead-oh, thank god, he thought. Running forward, the ground juddered under his feet as an explosion came from what felt like nearby, just as he burst out into the sands of the valley-the sun was rising, spilling sunlight among the rocks and boulders surrounding him. As he felt a rush of heat on his back, he froze as one of the black helicopters descended before him, throwing up sand with its rotors, as the rumbling behind him intensified.

"_RUN!_" he heard a voice from the helicopter cry. "_GET INTO THE CHOPPER!"_

Hell, he thought. Sprinting forward, he leapt into the troop bay of the helicopter just as fire and dust burst out from the base entrance. Looking down as the helicopter began to ascend, he watched as the entire rock hill began to crumble into the ground like a wet sandcastle, flooding the valley with dusty and smoke. Millions of years, gone, just like that, he thought. Now, turning towards the cockpit, the only thought on his mind now was answers.

"Thanks, I guess." he yelled over the sound of the chopper turbines. "One thing: who the fuck are you?"

"A friend." rumbled the pilot, in what O'Neil guessed was a central European accent. Austrian? "Do not worry. I know just what you faced down there."

"Really?" asked O'Neil. "Now where are you taking me?"

"To people who could use you."

"I see." laughed O'Neil, looking over his shoulder. A smokestack was now rising from the valley, into the Afghan morning sky. He had followed Hassan's advice; if only, he thought, people could be told what he and a dozen other brave men had gone through last night. With that, he sighed, and looked forward as the helicopter headed forward towards the morning sun.

* * *

_Washington DC, United States of America_

Seated alone in the Oval Office, Barack Hussein Obama, President of the United States, flicked through some of the morning's newspapers. Most dealt in some way with the mysterious communications blackout that had affected Helmand province last night, accompanied the deaths of at least a few dozen Coalition troops; on the plus side, the Taliban had also been just as hit by it, allowing the US and her allies to make extra gains.

That said, however, Obama was relieved that only he and a few others knew just what had really happened last night. What had in one night hurt the Coalition more than the Taliban ever had. He had been fully briefed on this when he had assumed office; that had been the first blow to his optimism, he thought, before he had even began to take on the economy and healthcare. If only people knew the burden of the secrets men like him needed to keep, he thought. They'd know that there was more pressing danger than terrorists or unemployment.

However, the threat had been dealt with. Not without cost; but if it was all for the greater good, than it was worth it. His predecessor, apparently, had made a deal with a particular body for precisely such an event, and he had seen no reason to undo it. Now, he was going to see a representative of this body, which had picked up the only survivor of a special forces team that had directly engaged the...anomalies that had made their incursion into Helmand last night.

"Mr. President," an aide opened the door. "He's here."

"Good. Let him in."

Obama put down the newspapers as a well-dressed man entered the room, carrying a briefcase, and assumed a friendly smiled.

"I must thank you for making such good time." he said. "I must congratulate you for last night."

"Of course, Mr. President." the man smiled. "We at Yutani always aim to please..."

**THE END**


End file.
